


take my hand, take my whole life too

by anneweaver



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: 5 Times, F/M, hands fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-09
Updated: 2016-10-09
Packaged: 2018-08-20 12:28:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,943
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8249042
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anneweaver/pseuds/anneweaver
Summary: Five times Leopold Fitz and Jemma Simmons hold hands, and one time it's not necessary.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [konstantine](https://archiveofourown.org/users/konstantine/gifts).



> For my favorite Satan, happy belated birthday! I know how much of a hands hoe you are, so...

**1.**

The first time her hand holds his, he doesn’t think much about it; they’ve just been introduced to each other, and shaking hands is the polite thing to do. She’s not the first person he’s shaken hands with today, and she’s not the last, and even years later he won’t remember that moment. 

The second time, it’s an accident. He had grabbed the wrong slide, and she touched his hand briefly to let him know, wordlessly, after she’d tried clearing her throat and he hadn’t noticed. He immediately realizes his mistake and corrects it, reflects for a second on how much their non-verbal communication had developed since they first met, smiles, and leans forward to look through the microscope lens.

The third time is the one he still remembers, even now; they’re late after a lecture, and almost miss the bus back to the Academy. She looks at the watch in her wrist, gasps, then reaches over for his hand to pull him towards the bus stop, their fingers tangling together like pieces of a puzzle; she doesn’t let go of his hand until they’re safely inside the bus, and when she falls asleep with her head on his shoulder, it’s the thought of the warmth of her hand on his that keeps him awake all the way to the Academy.

The problem starts when he finds himself unable to stop thinking about the feel of her fingertips on the back of his hand, the palm of her hand on his own. 

This kind of contact isn’t something they do, not really; the only physical contact they’d had before that moment was a hug, when Jemma was having a bad day and he hadn’t known how else to comfort her. Their friendship is based on words of many different kinds, inside jokes and reassurance and lots of knowledge; it’s based on all the things that are allowed to be left unsaid, the things that don’t have to be said out loud.

This part of it, however, is entirely foreign to him. He’s not a particularly touchy-feely person, and he knows she isn’t, either; maybe it’s the way they were raised, or maybe it’s the fact that they didn’t have anyone to develop this part of themselves with when they were younger, but physical contact of any kind with someone who’s not part of his immediate family is just not something he does… and yet, for some reason, this feels right.

He quickly realizes two things, then: the first one, is that maybe this kind of contact feels right because somehow Jemma Simmons is now a part of his family. The second one is that, even though her brain is definitely his favorite part of her, her hands are a close second. The way her fingers expertly handle dangerous chemicals and probes and slides and food, the way her hand runs through her hair when she’s exasperated, the way she doesn’t realize she’s holding his wrist when she’s nervous. She seems overly aware of her body all the time, but her hands are, somehow, the one part of her that seem to work on their own.

It feels wonderful, truly, to know that even when she’s not thinking, she still reaches out to him.

When Agent Weaver tells them they have a job offer at SciOps, her hand doesn’t let go of him until they’re both inside her dorm. When she releases his arm, it’s only to wrap her arms around his shoulders, and let out a relieved breath.

He could live like this, he thinks.

 

**2.**

He holds her hand tightly because if he doesn’t, he feels like he will fall apart, like his life just did.

That first night, when their current situation finally hits them all at once, they fall asleep on the same bed, holding hands.

When they find out about Ward, when he’s working  _ against  _ Ward, when he refuses to think about this man that betrayed them all so deeply and instead throws himself into his work, it’s her hand that keeps him steady and upright.

When they’re chased away from their base, when he feels lost, her hand leads the way.

He holds her hand, and he holds her when she cries almost every night at the hotel, and he holds her when she thinks she might fall apart, and he holds her so he won’t fall apart too.

Her hands become his lifeline, the thing that keeps him working and the thing that keeps him functioning and the thing that keeps him alive. Maybe he knew now, had known for a while, what the feeling on the pit of his stomach was every time he saw her smile, but he hadn’t truly grasped how vital she was to him until his entire life had been uprooted. She was his constant, the one thing in his life that hadn’t changed, wouldn’t change.

Her hand on his is the thing that keeps him grounded, safe, and true to himself.

So he holds on to her, because she is the only thing in his life that hadn’t fallen apart, and she was the only thing that kept  _ him  _ from falling apart.

 

**3.**

Everything is blue, and dark, and terrifying. 

He ignores the pain in his eyes, the way his legs and abdomen are shaking with the physical effort, the way the sand feels rough and uncomfortable against his face; his mind only focuses on one part of his body, the most important one right now: his hands, his fingers, holding onto her. For the first time in six months, he can feel her warmth at his fingertips, and he feels whole again. Like the puzzle of him is now complete.

He knows his hand is the only connection she has between…whatever  _ this  _ is, and their world, the  _ real  _ world. So he pulls, he holds tighter onto her hand, he buries his feet in the sand, he pulls, he pulls, he pulls.

Then her hand slips away from his.

In the last twenty-four hours he had thought, multiple times, that all his remaining strength had finally drained away from him, that he couldn’t keep fighting. This time, so close from her, so close from her touch, he knows that’s not true. 

So he fights.

He feels her fingers barely grazing his palm. And this time, her hand isn’t just his favorite part of her—aside from her brain. This time, her hand is his lifeline. It’s keeping her, and him, alive. So he holds on, this time, to never let go.

He doesn’t let go. He pulls, he brings her back, and he doesn’t ever let go.

 

**4.**

It’s always been a thing for them, but somehow it feels even bigger now. Like everything in his life, it feels brighter,  _ better _ . 

When they’re walking out of the hotel room, she holds his hand and all but drags him through the hallway. She’s bouncy and giggly and happy, and it feels like the greatest of miracles to know that it was  _ him  _ who caused her good mood. And when Mack looks at them with an odd look, they don’t really notice, instead they hold hands all the way back to the base and play with each other’s fingers, wordlessly, happily.

Unsurprisingly, that’s not where it ends: from that moment on, she always finds an excuse to hold his hand. After frustrating days at the lab, she grabs his hand and squeezes softly, to reassure him and let him know that, no matter what, they were in this together; during breakfast, and lunch, and dinner, she holds his hand through the hallways and while they eat, even though eating with one hand is uncomfortable; at night, before they say goodnight, she holds his hand and stands on her tiptoes, kisses him softly before breaking apart.

He knew her hands were her favorite feature, but now, knowing what these hands are capable of doing to him, he thinks he loves them even more. 

One day, after a particularly jarring day at the lab, she grabs his hand when she sees him falling asleep on top of his desk. 

“Come on,” she says, tugging at his arm, “time to go to bed.”

“I’m not done yet,” he sighs out, pointing at the computer, and frowns. She tugs harder and leans forward, pressing a soft kiss to his cheek.

“I know, but it’s late,” she replies, more insistently, “and if I’m the one telling you it’s late, you know it’s true. Come to bed. Please.”

It’s not her insistence, or her pout, or her forehead resting against his temple, though these all make a compelling argument; it’s the way her fingers tangle with his and send shivers running through his arm that makes him realize that alright, maybe it  _ is  _ very late, maybe it’s time to go to bed. To  _ their  _ bed now.

Later, when her head is on his chest and she’s fast asleep, her fingers holding his shirt tightly, he thinks about how he gets to fall asleep to this every night, wake up to this every morning, and his eyes close, reveling in the safety of this life they now share.

 

**5.**

He has held her hand, literally and metaphorically, for over a decade, but it’s a whole different thing when he holds both of hers and she stands in front of him, wearing a white dress, and reciting the vows she had protected from his curious eyes for weeks.

It feels different when she’s promising to be his forever.

He doesn’t need this, he knows that. He doesn’t need a full ceremony, in front of their friends and family, her wearing a white dress while he wears a tuxedo, he doesn’t need to exchange vows. Their vows have been exchanged through Hydra, through med pods, through foreign governments and distant planets and deaths and an insurmountable amount of pain, their vows have been exchanged during quiet nights and dates and long lab days; their lives are the vows they exchange with each other. 

But this is different, this is official, this makes it realer.

And the weight of the ring he now wears on his finger, the warmth of her hand as she holds onto him tightly to keep herself from crying, that feels more real than anything else he’s ever known.

When he kisses her as his  _ wife  _ for the first time, his hands don’t let hers go. Whatever happens from now on, their hands will always find each other’s.

 

**+1**

The fingers that hold onto his hand aren’t the ones that usually do, and it will take a while for him to get used to this new feeling, but he doesn’t mind; if anything, he cannot picture anything more perfect than this moment.

Their daughter holds onto their hands at the same time; her right hand is holding onto Jemma’s finger, her left hand holds onto his, and beyond her claim on their lives, their entire beings, this moment makes him feel like he’s finally, truly complete. It’s like he hadn’t known what it felt like to be whole until this little newborn human, half him and half her, graced him with her miniature fingertips.

Jemma looks at him, and the tears in her eyes mirrors his, he’s sure; though this time it’s not her hand that’s holding his, he feels as connected to her as he always has, and the tiny person in her arms is the best proof of that. 

Their eyes leave each other’s to focus on their daughter, their Hope, and they find that, for the first time ever, holding each other isn’t necessary.

**Author's Note:**

> Title is _(obviously)_ from Can't Help Falling In Love by Elvis Presley. How much more cliche can I get.
> 
> I wrote a good bunch of this while drunk, I hope it still makes sense. Again, happy birthday Eva! I love you, I'm glad you were born even though all you do is hurt me, and I hope this makes you even half as happy as those FS + Big Hero 6 gifsets made me.
> 
> Thanks to Shay and Cindy as always for beta-ing and being great.


End file.
